


Blips in the Radio Static

by pragma (CarlileLovesAnime)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Gen, Springles Week, Zombie Apocalypse, other character and ship tags will be added later ok, violence and gore warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarlileLovesAnime/pseuds/pragma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has changed in the last several months because of the plague – at least, for most people it has. Sasha supposes things have changed for her too, though probably not as drastically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Secret Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> guess what? i'm doing springles week! i have been waiting for this week for a looooong time and am excited to finally do the thing. this ship is so underappreciated. 
> 
> the prompt i chose for today is "secret". this is the only chapter that doesn't really pertain to its chosen prompt oops. (prompt list here: http://springlesweek.tumblr.com/post/68808290773/love-sasha-and-connie-follow-springlesweek-for) 
> 
> beta-reading credits to tumblr user ascensionablaze (/0u0)/**blippidy bloppidy bloo

Day 196

If Dad doesn’t return within a week, Sasha thinks as she watches him strap on his muddy Itascas, then she can only assume the worst. This fear has never diminished.

She tries not to picture it, and steps into the garage. Bailey refuses to leave his side, nuzzling her head against his hand as if to say, _please don’t go_. He musses the fur at the crook of her neck. Sasha brings her father his trusty rifle and a boxful of ammo.

He stands. He looks his daughter from head to toe, sucks his bottom lip, and wraps his arms around her, burly and safe and smelling of mosquito repellant and, faintly, rotten flesh. She leans into his camouflaged coat. The dog inserts herself between them, and her tail twitches mournfully between her legs.

When he pulls away, he cups her cheeks. “You know what to do,” he says. He rolls a calloused thumb over her cheekbone. “Be good.”

“I love you, Daddy.” Any confidence in her voice collapses midsentence.

She touches his wrists and sniffles, and he grimaces and drops his hands from her face. “I love you, too,” he says brusquely, and he turns around and picks up his gun. She grabs Bailey’s collar. The two of them must fight every itching bone in their body to not run after him on his way out the door.

 

Day 202

Sasha circles through the rooms, turning off all lights, Bailey in tow. Warm air stagnates throughout the cabin. Gray light filters into the kitchen through the tiniest cracks in the blinds. There is a radio underneath the floating cupboards, and though it does not require too much electricity to operate, the solar-powered generator has only so much juice. She turns it on and slowly turns the dial to find some – _any_ sort of signal. Finally she tunes it just right, and a smooth masculine voice twangs out of the speaker.

_…therefore, those on the Texas main power grid are to expect rolling blackouts over the next few weeks, which may or may not turn into a permanent loss of electricity. Stay tuned for updates. Today the governments of Indiana, Louisiana, and West Virginia declared anarchy…_

She hand-feeds the dog a biscuit to keep her occupied, and retrieves a jar of preserves for herself out of the pantry. Then she heaves her body onto the countertop, crosses her legs and forks candied strawberries into her mouth. She knows she should wait to eat nonperishables, but she can’t help her sweet tooth. She tells herself she’s earned it.

_…that, despite the lack of central government funding, Maria Medical Group continues to pursue a working vaccine for the condition. The leader of the group, Doctor Grisha Jaeger, issued a statement earlier this morning, wherein he admitted that little progress has been made because of…_

A little fantasy pops into her head of her father bursting through the door. He would be grinning and his arms would be wide open. He’d say, “They’re gone! It’s all over! We’re safe!” He would hug her and then he would scold her for walking around in only underwear and a tank top.

_…once again, we urge every uninfected individual still out there to get to the nearest safe zone as soon as possible, or, if not, arm themselves, stock up on supplies, and find durable shelter away from populated areas._

She does not feel the tears falling from her eyes, until she sees one land in the open mouth of the jar. He would probably scold her for crying, too, but at this point, she would count it as a blessing.

 

Day 206

Last night she did not sleep, on account of hearing noises she has not heard before coming from the woods. Between that and the length of time Dad has been gone, she figures she has two options. Neither of those options sounds all that great, but one is at least a little more viable than the other.

She empties her bag for the fifth time, sighs, and tries to think through this.

The first aid kit is non-negotiable, as are the matches and the portable water filter. A refillable water bottle is good. She doesn’t need any clothes but the ones on her back. Unless she magically finds another compartment, she won’t be able to include both the handheld radio and the solar charger for her phone. It would be nice to bring some nonessentials as well, in case she comes across someone who’s willing to barter. She has to find the right balance of food and not-food – there are certain supplies she must not forget, but at the same time, she does not know when she will stumble upon something safe to eat again and will need quick calories to maintain her between hunts. Not to mention weapons for those hunts, and self-defense: a good knife or two, a gun with plenty of bullets, and maybe a bow and some arrows for soundless long-distance killing. Sunblock, bug spray. Oh, right, the dog’s anxiety medication, too. Crap.

She dumps out everything once again. How in the hell can anyone carry their whole life on their back?

***

This red oak tree provides the best vantage point Sasha could want. She does not see any threats from up here. Nothing predatory. Nothing even remotely human-sized. She begins to descend, careful to step on the branches she knows are stable enough to hold her weight.

Something rustles on the forest floor – she hears it, and Bailey, waiting for her at the base of the tree, starts to growl.

“ _Schtille_ ,” Sasha hisses. Bailey quiets but remains tense.

She swings down from the lowest possible branch and lands on a mound of soggy brown leaves. Right away she sees them: rabbit tracks. “ _Such_ ,” she commands. She points to them and stalks along the side of their trail, Bailey padding close behind with her nose to the ground.

Sure enough, a brown rabbit sits behind a shrub, nibbling on a dandelion and completely unaware. She whispers, “ _Fuss_.” Bailey stops beside her. She crouches low and points to the rabbit, at an angle she knows the dog can see.

“ _Bring_.”

The dog lunges toward the bush. The rabbit bounds out of the way. Bailey gives chase, but does not have to work long to catch her prey. Sasha watches them, her heart pounding in the base of her throat.

The rabbit squirms in Bailey’s mouth as she approaches Sasha. All at once a wave of nausea hits her, and she forces herself to look away. “ _Fass_ ,” she says. When she faces the dog again, blood is pouring out of the little creature’s neck.

She steels herself and grabs it by the long ears. “ _Aus_.” Bailey lets her take the carcass. Sasha inspects it. There are a couple burs in its coat. Its front leg is bent oddly, perhaps broken. It is male and seems fairly old.

At last she nods at her dog and says, “Good girl.” Bailey wags her tail and licks her bloodstained chops.

***

Life has changed in the last several months because of the plague – at least, for most people it has. Sasha supposes things have changed for her too, though probably not as drastically. She finds herself thankful for things she did not appreciate before: for living in a backwoods cabin away from society, for having a paranoid dad, for receiving hunting and survival lessons from her redneck relatives, for having a big, smelly dog. She is even thankful for her compulsive shoplifting – though her father has always disapproved of it, and the guilt has damn near killed her a number of times – and subsequent stock of illegally procured, varyingly important miscellanea (to which she doesn’t really have access anymore, but it was nice when she did).

She kicks some moist dirt over the ashes from her campfire. The sun set a little over an hour ago, but it is not that dark yet. She stands at the roots of the oak for a moment and tries to decide whether she should build a little shelter or continue moving. She glances at Bailey, curled into a ball beside a small pile of bones, and realizes she feels tired as well. Hopefully the smell of dead rabbit is not so strong that it would invite scavengers – or worse – while they rest. She coils the dog leash around her shoulder, scales to a low and sturdy bough, and ties herself to the trunk. She hardly sleeps a wink.

 

Day 207

By noon she spots the faded old Valero station on the outskirts of town. She explores it out of curiosity. The pumps are completely dry and useless; most of the windows are broken; and aside from litter, splintered furniture, spoiled groceries and a couple corpses, there is nothing inside the convenience store. Quite the battle must have taken place here.

In no way a good sign. She heaves a sigh and stops the dog from pawing at a blowfly-covered raccoon. “ _Lass es – hier_ ,” she commands. Her chest feels dense. She situates her shotgun in one arm and cocks it, just in case. Her every instinct tells her to turn the fuck back, but she takes a deep breath and overrides the gut feeling with hopes of helping hands further into town.

She is not so lucky, though. The town is more desolate than it has ever been.

Everyone is either gone or dead.

She comes to a street lined with colorful townhouses and a white picket fence that has seen better days. Maybe there is food here. She cracks open one of the gates, bends to Bailey’s eye-level, and points at an ajar front door.

“ _Geh rein_.” Bailey whines in protest. “ _Geh rein_ ,” she says more firmly, frowning.

The dog slinks up the overgrown lawn, glancing back at her owner every few seconds to ensure she’s still there. She pokes her head through the door.

“ _Voran_ ,” Sasha calls. Bailey disappears into the house.

Sasha crouches behind a post and watches for a moment. No movement or sound.

It has not even been six hours and she already feels famished. She stands, casting looks up and down the road, and slinks into the house.

“Bailey?” She steps into the living room. Most of the furniture in here is gone – likely taken by looters. Dust and trash everywhere. There is a pungent smell of decay. She flips on the lightswitch without thinking, but nothing changes. A chill runs up the back of her neck and her hammering heart falls into her stomach. She recocks her gun.

She opens her mouth but it takes a minute for her to find her voice. “ _Gib laut_ ,” she says. _Speak_. Distantly she hears Bailey bark – it makes her jump. Despite her keen sense of hearing she cannot tell where the bark originated. Maybe she’s too scared. Sasha looks down at her trembling knees, clenches a fist, and forces herself to take a step forward.

She gasps. Something crashed, there’s someone here, oh, God, she’s going to – she glances about, no, it’s nothing, false alarm. But damn she _has to_ get out of here. She breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, more quickly than she probably should.

“ _Hier_ ,” she yells. Within seconds, Bailey appears in the doorway between the dining and living rooms. Sasha nods at her and charges out the front door before she’s even caught up.

She struggles to breathe, her heart throbbing, her legs burning as she sprints across the yard, out the gate, down the sidewalk. Her spine is stiff with the feeling of being followed—

“Die, zombie!”

Sasha halts dead in her tracks, jumps two feet in the air and screams bloody murder. Her arms flail about, and she aims her shotgun without looking and fires into the ground. Bailey runs in the opposite direction.

“Oh, crap. I am so sorry.” Just meters in front of her – only feet from where the bullet landed – stands a short young man, eyes and mouth wide open, ax in hand. She does not register that he even exists until she hears him speak.

She is frozen in place, unable to breathe, her entire body solid and pulsating.

He takes half a step backward, lowers his weapon, and scans her from head to toe. “You aren’t infected, are you?”

It is all she can manage to shake her head just barely from side to side. A curious, concerned, now collected Bailey returns to her.

The young man walks backward half a house-length, eyes trained on her the whole time. He angles his head toward an alleyway. “Hey, guys!” he calls. “I found somebody – and she’s okay!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple notes that hopefully add sense to all this: 
> 
> \- bailey's commands are in german. i know like no german at all (yet) -- i just used this site for german dog commands: http://www4.uwsp.edu/psych/dog/languag1.htm  
> \- if you are thinking, "wow there is literally nothing secret about this chapter", you are very right and i am going to grasp at straws here: sasha lives in a house with a secret location, and she secretly steals stuff out of compulsion. (employing my headcanon that sasha has some form of kleptomania because closet kleptomaniac!sasha is, like, my life. not that it's /super relevant/ to this particular fic.)  
> \- the dude with the ax who scared the shit out of sasha at the end of the chapter is connie, as y'all probably gathered.  
> \- sasha's dad is a strict, paranoid, controlling, intolerant hick who simultaneously loves and intimidates sasha and he is either a zombie or dead now i don't really know or care because he just doesn't appear in the fic anymore after this.


	2. The Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts today were "drink" and "game", and i think this chapter could go with either actually. it is a pretty upbeat chapter nonetheless and kinda short 
> 
> tumblr user ascensionablaze beta-read (:

It began with an entirely different group of five: Mike, Nanaba, Henning, Rene, and Gerger, who drove south from Maine in a Chevy Suburban full of canned food and semiautomatic guns. First they picked up Ymir and Christa, two NYU students whose wedding was supposed to happen two months ago. Then they found Connie, the sole uninfected survivor of a rural town in Pennsylvania. Finally they came across Reiner and Bertholdt, a pair of best friends from Trenton, New Jersey.

The ten of them encountered a _swarm_ of zombies in Maryland. Mike was able to clear a path for the truck through the horde, but not without losing his life. Even with his help, though, the car took a lot of damage, and barely got the group to North Carolina before it just could not run anymore. They were forced to abandon their vehicle and continue on foot from there. They had no idea where they were going without the car’s navigation system.

Rene was lost to a band of highwaymen. Henning fell severely ill, and had to be left behind at a small hospital in Charleston, South Carolina. The group hasn’t heard from either of them since. They survived another zombie attack shortly thereafter, but Nanaba and Gerger were bitten in the process, and the others had to kill them before the infection spread and destroyed their consciousness.

Now they are down to five once again, weary, starving, and almost totally out of ammo.

“Where are we, anyway?” Reiner – charismatic and bulgingly muscular, more or less the de facto leader since the others are gone – asks Sasha once she has calmed down.

“Dauper, Tennessee,” she says.

He exchanges looks with the others, and most of them grin.

“You mean we made it all the way to Tennessee?” exclaims Connie, the short young man with the ax. “Holy dang!”

“And I thought we were just going in circles,” Christa says.

Not surprisingly, this is the first time Sasha has ever seen people this excited to find themselves in some podunk town in the Great Smoky Mountains. Ymir, a few yards back, stares at the distant forest. Bertholdt sighs.

“We’ve been hanging out here for a couple days now,” Reiner explains. “We found a little bit of food in some of the houses in this neighborhood, but I think we’re running out of luck.”

Sasha hums once.

“How long have you been here?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not even a day. I came from the woods, hoping I could find some – I don’t know, something.”

“Well,” Reiner says, and he pauses to sling his backpack over one shoulder. “I don’t mean to pepper you with questions, but what’s up in the woods?”

“I live in a cabin there, about half a day’s hike away,” Sasha says.

“Are there zombies?” he asks, to which she replies, “No.”

“Then why would you leave?” Ymir sneers. She has wandered back to the group.

Sasha shrugs. She doesn’t know, really. Maybe she just got scared. She’s been alone for a while.

Ymir scoffs, shifts her weight to one side and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I could bring you there, if you want – I had to leave a lot behind that y’all could use.” Sasha stands from the front porch stoop. “I can’t guarantee that it’s safe there, though.”

He waves a hand. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.” He looks to the others, who each give him some silent signal of approval. He returns to Sasha. “Thank you very much.”

***

Reiner leads the rest through the forest, chopping liberally at the impeding overgrowth with a machete. Sasha navigates from close behind. It just worked out that way.

Connie trots up to her side. “Hey.”

She reciprocates the greeting, smiling in a polite way.

“I’m sorry I scared you earlier,” he says for the third time.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m sorry I shot at you.” She sticks out her right hand toward him. “We can be friends, right?”

He takes it. “Of course.”

Bailey seems nervous, walking so close to her owner’s side that the two of them bump into each other every few minutes.

He smiles down at her. “Cool dog,” he says. “What kind is it?”

“German Shepherd,” Sasha says.

Connie loves dogs – he’s a huge dog person. Sasha, too.

 

Day 208

The cabin is a welcome familiarity after hiking through the night. The battery-powered analog clock on the kitchen wall shows it’s almost 4 a.m.

“Holy cow,” Connie says, “Look at all this food!” His eyes glitter with happy tears, and his are not the only ones that do. He, Reiner and Christa throw themselves at the pantry, taking as much as they can in their arms. Jerky, honey, dried fruit, bread.

Sasha watches them shout and hug one another, and she feels a pang somewhat like jealousy. She frowns and admonishes herself in her head. She chose to offer her resources to these people. They are in far greater need than she is. There is plenty to go around. Her stomach growls.

“There’s more in my bedroom,” she says tentatively, “In the closet and the crawlspace.”

Ymir touches her shoulder. “You were a fool for leaving all this when there was no danger.” She heads for the bedroom before Sasha can respond.

“Oh, my God,” Reiner moans, his mouth full of bread. He throws his head back as if he is having some sort of food orgasm. Connie pours apricot jam straight from the jar into his mouth. Sasha reaches around them for a container of dried meat strips.

Connie opens the refrigerator and begins to root around. “That stuff’s probably not good anymore,” Sasha warns. He continues to search anyway.

All the sudden Bertholdt comes bounding toward the room. He stops in the doorway, one hand on the frame and a full stainless steel water bottle in the other. He looks at all of them and they look at him. He is beaming, and panting, and trembling with excitement.

“The plumbing works,” he announces, his voice weak with wonder.

Connie gasps and takes his head out of the fridge. Christa swallows the bread in her mouth. “You mean—?”

“A working shower,” Reiner murmurs.

Christa shrieks in delight and races toward the bedroom. “Ymir, did you hear that?”

“We literally have not had a real shower in _months_ ,” Reiner says to Sasha. She already could tell, though, from everyone’s matted, greasy hair, sticky skin, and pervasive BO. She understands why.

Christa returns to the kitchen. Ymir saunters in behind her with a box of Cheez-Its, one of Sasha’s favorite snacks to steal and hide from her father.

“Do you mind if we use your shower?” Christa asks. Sasha shakes her head without hesitation.

“Ladies first,” Reiner says, and he takes half a step back.

Ymir looks at her fiancée and swallows. “Christa?”

She grins and scans everyone in the room. Then she claps her hands together. “I’ll try to not use too much hot water.”

Sasha waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “The water heater is huge, and it runs on solar power.”

Christa grins even wider. She gallops out of the room giggling.

Bertholdt lumbers over to the pantry. He plucks some jerky off a shelf and begins to tear at it. Connie cries, “A-ha!” and pulls a baggie of non-moldy sliced meat out of a refrigerator drawer. Ymir snatches it from him. Bailey, lying in the corner, lifts her head, squints at the guests, and rolls onto her other side.

Reiner gulps down the last of his bread loaf. He takes Sasha by the shoulders. “We honestly cannot thank you enough.”

“It’s nothing.” The words taste bitter on her tongue. It is nothing. It’s only food. It’s only food. _It’s only food_.

About thirty minutes later, Christa comes back, her long hair dripping wet, and declares that this was the best shower of her life, no contest, and that she felt sad putting her dirty clothes back on. Sasha then tells all the guests they can borrow whatever they fancy from her and her father’s wardrobes. Her clothes are a little too large for Christa, and her father’s fit Reiner perfectly but hang off skinny Bertholdt and Ymir and practically swallow Connie whole, but everyone is more than grateful nonetheless. She tries to imagine what her father would say, if he were here now, about a bunch of random strangers entering his home, eating his food and wearing his clothes.

***

“This reminds me a lot of my old house,” Connie says, and he sips from the glass of water in his hand. The radio drones the same old news beside him.

Sasha smacks her lips. “Yeah?” She works to scoop more peanut butter out of the jar between her legs, scraping the inside of the plastic walls. “I have lived in this house for only a few years.”

A lot of things were different after Mom died. Bailey couldn’t handle loud noises anymore. Dad went a little nuts. Sasha started to steal. They moved out of their normal suburban house and built this place, a perfect escape from the Armageddon Dad was certain would happen someday. Unfortunately, he turned out to be right.

She closes her mouth around the spoon and slides it out between her lips.

Connie chuckles. “I’ve lived on a farm my whole life,” he says. He peers down at the tile floor. “We used to go out and slaughter our animals when we wanted meat. I thought I was used to seeing things die.” His knuckles turn white around the glass.

She observes him for a minute. A hard, sour lump forms in her chest. She tries to swallow.

She lays a hand between his shoulderblades – he gasps – and rubs circles into his back. He closes his eyes, and relaxes.

No time to spare for grief.

_…a strange phenomenon has been cited in China, where victims of the disease swell to elephantiasis-like proportions. Doctors everywhere are wondering if this symptom is related to the disease and if the disease is thus evolving…_

Bertholdt pokes his head in the doorway. “Connie, your turn to sleep,” he says, even though it is broad daylight outside.

He opens his eyes and looks at him, and hops down from the counter. “Thank you,” he whispers to Sasha.

“Wish I could do more,” she replies.

Connie shuffles off to the living room, where the couch has been turned into a pullout bed. Bertholdt leans against the counter at the opposite end of the kitchen from Sasha, tense and sweaty and staring bleary into space.

She glances at the dog and then out the window. “Let’s play a game.”

Bertholdt raises his eyebrows at her.

“To pass the time,” she explains.

He hesitates. “Okay.” He points to the radio. “Would you mind turning that off, though, first?”

She nods and presses the power button.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it’s important to listen to what’s going on. I’m just tired of all the bad news.”

She tilts her head. “It’s okay. I get like that too.” She drops the spoon in the empty peanut butter jar, sets the jar beside her and lowers herself to the floor. They play “I spy” for hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes: 
> 
> \- here is a u.s. map if you wanna orient yourself with all the locations/aren't from amurrika/don't know your u.s. geography well: http://itsahappyday.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/USA-Map-Only.jpg   
> \- dauper, tennessee is not a real place (obvs) but the great smoky mountains are and i have been there and it is pretty fun imo. except when you have to drive, or forget your bug repellant.   
> \- i am sorry that sasha is so very food-focused in this ugh i try to not write her like she's totally obsessed with food but there is a lot of food in this chapter so i guess it fits? ??????   
> \- the next chapter is gonna be LONGer probably and therefore may be a bit delayed because classes started today! yay!! (why do all my ships' weeks have to happen when i have a ton of real life shit to do.)


End file.
